He was so weakened from hunger, from sleeping out in the cold and rain, that his usual deftness with the sword seemed to have completely deserted him.
Naturally, he took shelter when he could amongst the trees. He ate the roots he dug up from fields, the small game he managed to catch with the snares he’d been taught to construct from twigs and leaves.
He had deliberately darkened the bright sheen of the breastplate, covering it with a cloak he’d obtained after ashamedly resorting to thieving. He would have paid for what he stole with the breastplate’s gems, but found them impossible to remove. Besides, he realised, paying for these things with either the jewels of anything else from his person – a dagger, his empty purse, a belt – would only draw the attention of the pursuing soldiers, letting them know the direction he was heading.
Not that he knew where he was heading.
He had never been this far away from the castle. Not even on extensive hunting expeditions.
Even when he eventually cleared the last hill of what should have been his own lands, he refused to let his guard down: his mother the queen could well have sent out demands for his return to every surrounding kingdom. He was relieved, therefore, when he arrived in a city that floated upon the great mirror of the sea, its every building and square linked by arching roadways.
He could rest, at last, while still traveling ever farther away from his vengeful mother.
Within the great squares, he was aware of and felt deeply the despondency of the people who gathered there, crowds mourning the loss of the wondrous harp who used to entertain them with her impassioned songs. Hearing of their wretchedness, he wished to make amends for their loss by returning the red jewel that had granted the poor harp all of her talents and powers.
Even amongst the many other similar great houses, of elaborate porticos and richly painted colours, the mayor’s house stood out: it was the only one, after all, that had suffered damage to its cellar and walls, when the abducted harp had played her mournful tune. The entire house had had to be carefully shored up with a framework of timbers that hung about the crumbling stone like an external skeleton.
As the prince knocked on the door, it dawned on him that he looked little better than a wastrel: he would be turned away by anyone answering the door. Quickly, he flung back the cloak hiding the breastplate and its settings of resplendent jewels. Just as quickly, he used the edge of the cloak to clean all the encrusted dirt away, ensuring that at the very least the front of the breastplate shone like a miniature star.
When the mayor’s servant answered the knocking, he glanced at the prince’s face with disdain – a disdain that immediately vanished on his gaze dropping towards the glittering gems.
Whether the servant was capable of recognising the importance of the jewels or not, he was fully versed in being able to spot their worth. Far from being a vagabond who should be instantly dismissed, this caller was a person of wealth and importance who should be granted audience with the mayor.
On being presented to the mayor, the mayor’s eyes also immediately fell upon the jewels; and, unlike the servant, he couldn’t fail to notice that one of the bright gems – the sard of most spectacular red – was the one that had been stolen from their kingdom years before.
He gasped, a gasp not just of surprise but also full of doubt and wariness; what was this bedraggled young man doing with their precious stone? How had he come by it? Why was he here? Was he even aware that it was a stolen gem?
The prince couldn’t help but be aware of the mayor’s stupefied gaze.
‘Please,’ he said quickly and bluntly, ‘I’m here to return the stone stolen from you by one of my father’s knights.’
*
‘Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to return with the harp,’ the prince apologised, not wishing to raise the poor man’s hopes too high. ‘It may be that, one day, I’m in a position to return it to you.’
Despite the prince’s admission that the harp would remain unreturned at least a while longer, the mayor’s stance changed from one of stupefaction to one of joyful relief.
‘Ah, yes, our poor, poor sadly missed harp: but the gem you’re returning is the real her – her soul, if you will, whereas the instrument was merely the body.’
‘The jewel seems firmly fixed, I’m afraid…’ the prince admitted apologetically once more as, bowing his head, he reached for the red sard and tried to remove it with a few hard twists of his hand. (He had considered using his dagger’s tip to prise it free, but was worried that drawing his weapon might unnerve an already edgy mayor.)
‘Why, but here it is…’ the mayor declared in surprise.
Glancing up, the prince saw that the mayor was pointing to a glowing red sard lying on a nearby tabletop. Glancing back towards his hand, he saw that the sard he had tried to remove from his breastplate was still firmly fixed there.
Looking between the two brightly gleaming stones, it was impossible to discern which was the original, which the copy. If, indeed, either one was a mere copy.
Had his intention to yield the gem being enough to ensure the precious stone was returned to its rightful place? And if so, did that also mean the amber he had taken from the nunnery also continued to exist in some way with the nuns? After all, he hadn’t wanted to take it, had he?
‘Will you have another harp made?’ the prince asked. ‘I’ve heard of the remarkable talents she possessed.’
The mayor rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he observed the sard lying on the nearby table.
He shook his head.
‘No, no: it wouldn’t seem right to try and replace her in such a way, I think – no matter how clever or exact the copy.’
‘Then…I’m truly sorry.’ The prince hung his head in shame. ‘If you don’t think she can be revived then, through my father’s irresponsibility, I’m accountable for her death.’
The mayor appeared shocked by the prince’s embarrassed announcement.
‘Please, please, my lord,’ the mayor blurted out, ‘you can’t hold yourself responsible, not when you’ve made such great efforts to right such a wrong! No, no: we may not resurrect our poor, lamented harp – but her soul can undoubtedly live on within some new instrument we can forge!’
‘Then I’m grateful to you for easing my heart by saying this,’ the prince replied with a thankful bow of his head before turning to leave.
‘No, wait, my lord – where are you staying?’
As the prince turned in response to the mayor’s question, he saw that the man was once again displaying his powers of observation, taking in the boy’s impoverished state of worn boots, soiled cloak and torn leggings.
‘For reasons too numerous to explain, my good mayor,’ the prince began, deciding instantly that he would have to tell the truth or be damned as a liar by the sad state of his apparel, ‘I find myself sleeping wherever I find warmest for the night.’
He slept, he was loath to admit, under the welcoming boughs of a surpassingly large tree incongruously gracing the very centre of one of the lesser squares.
The mayor’s observant gaze was once again drawn to the magnificent jewels decorating the prince’s breastplate.
‘The son of a king cannot sleep under the stars when we have rooms here that are available,’ he said, indicating with a wave of his hands that he was referring to rooms within his own house.
The prince grimaced ashamedly.
‘As you saw, I’m afraid what appears to be my wealth doesn’t give itself up easily.’
‘My lord,’ the mayor responded with wide, aggrieved eyes, ‘in the return of our precious jewel, you have more than paid for any lodging I can offer! I insist you must allow me to repay you in some way, at least until we reach our destination!’
The prince – realising the mayor had been affronted by his careless assumption that payment would be expected, realising too that the city’s destination may well be another land where he could return yet another jewel – said, ‘Then I find mysel
f apologising to you once more, my good mayor, as well as once again gratefully accepting your kind offer. Though, may I ask – what is your destination?’
‘The kingdom of Asher, my lord.’
Naturally, the mayor didn’t miss the prince’s frown of unfamiliarity with the name.
‘It’s a kingdom suffering the worst of misfortune, my lord: and that is not so much despite it being ruled by a wise and beautiful princess but, rather, because of it. For as anyone is well aware, a kingdom must necessarily have a king – and so she finds herself constantly under siege from unsuitable suitors, each of whom regularly assures her that she must take his hand for the good of her people.’
‘A country suffering misfortune?’ The prince grinned ruefully. ‘It wouldn’t take a great leap of the imagination to assume one of my father’s knights might be in some way responsible!’
*
Chapter 18
Within the City of Reuben’s great squares, the most sublime music played once more. Regularly, no matter the weather.
(Although they were now passing through the Seas of Zebulun, there had been none of the storms usually feared within this area since the disappearance of the Haven’s Eye, the mayor informed the prince. The people of Zebulun were in no rush for the stone’s return, it seemed, at least not until they had developed a better means of utilising its immense powers.)
As when the harp had played within the great, elegant squares, vast crowds gathered to hear the sublime melodies.
They came from the homes and workplaces of Reuben. They came from the ships who docked in the harbours. They came on a form of pilgrimage, having heard of the return of the musical performances.
They came to be swayed by the emotion of the airs: buoyed by the swelling harmonies; moved by the deft phrasing; briefly drawn into the depths of despair by reverberating chords.
It was all as it had been years before, when their wondrous harp had been so deviously snatched from them. The only difference, of course, was that it was no longer the magical harp who entertained them. It was now a magical golden flute.
Naturally, the timbre of the music was thereby different too. Yet it had always been the inherent emotion of the melodies that had counted most, of course: and all that brilliance of absorbing and capturing and relating that vast tapestry of conflicting yet lastingly entwining emotions was all there, as if it had never, ever really gone away.
With nothing much else to do while the city languidly drifted across the seas, the prince would listen every day to the flute’s renditions of victors celebrating war, or of those lands lamenting its effects; of ships wrecked in storms, or trade winds reuniting dispersed families; of those coveting the beauty of others, or time and age unconsciously stripping such good fortune from those previously born with it.
The prince found himself experiencing emotions he hadn’t even known existed, let alone been aware of their power to either raise someone up, or dash them to pieces on the rocks of fate.
Cowardice, terror, fear.
Aggressiveness, intolerance, mercilessness.
Envy, greed, gluttony.
Compassion, selflessness, sacrifice.
But of them all, no matter how amazing they were, the most wonderful of all was love.
Love had many facets, such that it seemed to him to encapsulate in some form or other all other emotions.
It could enflame a sufferer, or burn them agonisingly.
It could send you soaring up to the heavens, or consign you to plunging unstoppably towards hell.
It could grant a whole new sense of life, or have you wallowing in suicidal despondency.
It could be an apparently deeply incurable wound, whose only remedy was its very cause.
There were those, the prince heard within these vibrant, moving melodies, who sought love, those who ignored it for other causes or loyalties, those who had to fight against its myriad effects.
There were those lucky in love, those far less unfortunate, those who degraded themselves, seeking their love in all the wrong places.
There was love for another, love for a sibling, love for a parent, a child; love for so many, differing things.
And yet he, the prince, had never experienced it in any of its many greater or lesser forms.
And yet it was this very thing, love, the mayor informed him, that held the land of Asher in its present impasse, the princess insisting that love must play the most important role in her choice of husband and king.
As well as providing the prince with lodging while he stayed within the floating city, the mayor had also kindly granted him a purse of coins, a horse, extra items of armour, and a sheath for his sword. While he was preparing these belongings in readiness to disembark, polishing his sword before returning it to its new sheath, the flute was brought up from the newly repaired cellar rooms, on the first part of its journey to the main square.
‘Stop!’ the flute urgently whistled.
Despite the wonders they had all heard from the mouth of the flute, this sudden command blurted from its golden lips startled them all: for no one had ever realised that it was capable of speech.
‘There’s something I must say, a tale I must tell!’ the flute insisted, its voice one of whistle and chirrups, as if a bird had learned how to talk.
‘We weren’t aware you could speak!’ responded an awed mayor, as the procession escorting the flute towards the square came to an abrupt halt.
‘It’s the sword,’ the flute explained, ‘the sword the prince holds needs to speak through me!’
*
Chapter 19
The Pierced Heart
In the same way that a whale hears the eerie, echoing whistling of another whale and fully perceives it to be a lament of longing, of love, a heart hears and understands the beating of other hearts.
Indeed, many warriors would swear that a finely wrought sword, too, can hear and understand the singing of other swords; their own laments of battles lost, the triumphant ululations of wars won, even the shivering shame or quivering glee of a forthcoming treacherous strike.
Whether that particular belief can be substantiated or not, we can know with certainty that the sword that would become known as the Prophet was undoubtedly given the power to pierce the hearts of men and know of the secret longings shielded therein.
And this was because the sword itself was granted a heart.
Its forging was painstaking and detailed, a process more mystical than mechanical: the astute collecting of its earthly metals, the regular softening over hungrily licking fires, the swift yet steady beating within the cooling air, the religious dousing in blessed waters, all carefully calculated to ensure it emerged in possession of spirit.
To give his sword a heart, however, the smith would have to be prepared to sacrifice something of immense worth; a daughter, perhaps, or a son.
Would any creator be prepared to make such a sacrifice, even for his most wonderful creation?
Now the smith, although a renowned and premier worker of metals, loved his offspring far too much to even contemplate such a move. And so it might have been that the Prophet, like many another truly remarkable swords, remained ultimately heartless.
Fortunately, this smith possessed something of immense worth that he was indeed prepared to sacrifice for the benefit of his most accomplished creation; an heirloom, passed down from generations who might otherwise have been long forgotten – a translucent stone of greenish yellow that had once graced an angelic crown, fallen to Earth during the War in Heaven.
For once, a sword’s ribbed handle was as artfully constructed as its veined blade, the two connected by the smith utilising entwining threads and hair obtained from his sister’s own remarkable work at the loom, the pommel holding tightly within its grasp a gem treated as if it were indeed a beating heart.
In this way, the sword was gifted the miraculous power to hear the secrets of the heart: to discern the minute differences in pulsation that revealed an op
ponent’s intentions, such that no man could face its wielder without fearing that his every action would be anticipated and thwarted.
Like almost everyone else, the smith was lost in the Great Deluge; but the sword was thankfully saved by his sister, becoming itself an heirloom passed on through tribes and nations, frequently at the right hand of just leaders and kings, hearing correctly the truth amongst the lies.
It gained a formidable reputation, forged through the justice and wisdom of its wielders’ judgements, as much if not more than prowess on the battlefield.
Naturally, uncountable numbers of brave and accomplished knights came specifically to test themselves against the bearer of this remarkable sword. Yet no matter their level of skill, no matter how experienced they were in wielding their own blades, they invariably found themselves yielding to and beseeching the mercy of this remarkable instrument.
And mercy, of course, was granted every time. For the Prophet’s skill of truthfully perceiving a heart’s whispering came only from a heart that was completely free of the guile or hatred that would cause misinterpretation.
The Prophet’s gift of anticipating an opponent’s intentions were widely lauded and acclaimed, such that the true depths of his skills at acutely perceiving what truly lay deep within men’s hearts were gradually forgotten and unrecognised.
I would hear and I would be heard, the sword attempted to whisper to them. I would be pierced and I would pierce.
Now it came to be that – acting on a reliable rumour that he would find this wondrous sword in a particular king’s possession – one of Christendom’s most renowned and premier knights came seeking the truth behind the tales of this miraculous sword.
His arrival within the kingdom was fêted, his presence regarded as an honour, the king himself elatedly announcing that a Grand Tournament would be held immediately so that the citizens might witness the knight’s famed martial prowess.
No one could have been disappointed by the display the knight put on for them.
In matters of the lance or mace or double-handed sword, he brought down opponent after opponent over each day, such that no one could ever be in doubt that he would be proclaimed the victor in both fields on the final day of fighting.